Humankind

Humankind at pits of fire stalled,

A roll of drums, darkling battle miens,

Strides through blood-mist; black iron tolled,

Despairing, night in mournful brains:

Eve’s shadow here, hunting and red gold.

Clouds, the light breaks through, and then the supper.

There dwells in bread and wine a gentle hush.

And they all are gathered twelve in number.

In sleep they shout beneath the olive branch;

Saint Thomas dips his hand into the stigma.

Georg Trakl